Sun flowers and fire

The Gironde is still burning, pine forests full of wildlife destroyed. But according to the news reports, there have been no victims.

We walked around the place today across the stream. Sunflowers fill the small field behind the poplars and the alders.

Turning east into the sun, climbing into the gentle hills, more sunflowers spread north and north and north.

We turn back, still early morning , but already too hot, walk west, thinking of the wild fires raging, and the massacre in the inferno of tinderbox pine forests.

The sun was once
a mother and father
we watched it rise and set
in awe wonder and fear.
Now all that is left is fear.



this path is straight

has no turnings

it leads to the mountain of words

and unopened books

and it has no end


the hedges are dark

at either hand

though white cups of roses

float here are there

and birds flutter


the path is a stream

between stony banks

its course relentless

carrying its debris of fellow travellers

to the sea


where drowning in disappointment

awaits those with empty hands

and the worries

that ran alongside

like tireless hounds


swim now with jaunty fins

still here

they roll their silver-glitter eyes

reminding us of wild roses

in a forgotten hedgerow

Something lost

Another through the window poem for dverse and a particularly strange cloud formation.


Days begin

sun-faced and dew-bright

beneath the swaying flowers

but night shadows remain

knotted in deep roots and matted stalks



a sounding board bounces echoes

the silent spread glitter of stars

sun on water

watches but doesn’t listen


only the clouds brood

bringing rain or dragons

and the proof that time passes

drifting from horizon to horizon

dawn to dusk


dropping scales

gnat swarms


on ships that pass in the night

upturned faces


while we

who see the immutable sky beyond

hear the silence that meets the shouted questions

search among the knotted roots

for something we never knew we had

When the heart


I will ignore the black and bitter,

watch the moon,

silver light on the rain-dripping roses,

and let the hushed rain-patter

become distant footsteps,


and I will send

a thousand petalled, feathered words,

silent as sympathy,

and the way the grey dove

leans in to her mate.


These are ugly days and days of beauty,

foulness filtered through light,

beauty marred by misery,

grief rocks the world to the core,

fissuring my heart.


Watch the moon, she says,

not the red sunset, and remember,

looking into the cool ocean depths of sky,

who we once were

and perhaps still are.

Rainbow’s beginning



Against the herd of elephant grey

clouds, bulging with rain,

a path sprang, leaping

from golden grass, a banner,

a bridge of rain-prismed light.


I ran through the rain to touch a myth,

I ran brushing damp seed heads

that bent away in gentle mockery,

but rain ran faster,

wiping the sky clean of dreams.


Some things are not for us

to have and hold,

to touch only in wishes, but,

beginning or end,

I saw.

Five verses


wind sighs

like foam whisper

on the strand

bathed in sun-glitter

washed in water from the world’s womb



shakes the boughs

where a thrush sings into the breeze

tonguing a call to prayer

to the presence of spring


I wade through long grass

meadow waves where flowers nod

and crickets sing

and the heat rises

in a tide of well-being


A lark sings higher than sight

higher than clouds and rain

while we


and leaden in spirit


measure and count

eyes fixed on fashion

the price of futilities

wading deeper and further

from the blissful blue